


streetlights dimly lit

by valery_snowflakes



Series: small town firelight [1]
Category: South Park
Genre: I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Night Talks, clinically depressed dude meets self proclaimed therapist, just two gang leaders having some bonding time is all, no beta we die like men, proofreading is for the weak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 15:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19907890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valery_snowflakes/pseuds/valery_snowflakes
Summary: If someone had come up to Stan that morning and told him he’d be spending the early hours of the morning chit chatting with his sworn rival Craig Tucker, he’d probably would’ve laughed in their face and driven over to Craig’s house just to flip him the bird or throw eggs at his window or some equally stupid thing. Yet here he is, talking shit about their hometown and the meaning of life itself, soaked and frozen to the bone, underneath a flickering light at ungodly hours in the morning, sharing bits and pieces of their lives while the rest of the world sleeps.





	streetlights dimly lit

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as me seeing some Staig fanart and dwelling on it for too long, it wasn't meant to be serious but Look At Where We Are Now.  
> Disclaimer #1: I know that Craig and Stan don't live across each other, according to both TFbW nd TSoT maps. Take that as a deliberate plot choice.  
> Disclaimer #2: For the sake of this story, please imagine the Tweak family house is located somewhere near the Stoley residence.  
>  **Heads up:** English isn't my first language, so there are bound to be some grammar mistakes here and there. If you see any please feel free to point them out to me so I can correct them, thanks!  
> Without further ado, enjoy!
> 
> Title is from Shades Apart — Second Chances

Even though the rain stopped a long time ago, the streets are filled with puddles, the evening air cold with that post-downpour chill that seeps in through your clothes and adheres to your skin in a sort of wet, sticky kiss. Still, Craig couldn’t be less bothered, not yet done basking in that post-secret-rendezvous emotion that makes him feel larger than life and absolutely invincible.

Craig feels happy, and with good reason. It’s not often that Tweek sneaks him into his bedroom and lets Craig have his wicked way with him, but every time that happens it never fails to leave the noiret a mess, giddy and bursting at the seams with the most pure, unadulterated kind of happiness.

(The kind that makes him want to buy a ring and the same kind of happiness that used to make Those Guys shudder because they weren’t really used to seeing him smile that much and the fact that Tweek was able to make him go from zero to a hundred in no time wasn’t as admirable as it was creepy, but nowadays just makes them fondly roll their eyes and pressure Craig to _buy the goddamn ring already_ ).

Smiling to himself, Craig wanders around the streets, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his hoodie and earphones on, gently humming under his breath words that he’d never dare speak aloud — not because the song is particularly nasty or extremely cheesy, but merely for the fact that he’d rather drop dead on the ground right this very instant than have South Park find out he knows all the words to Cher’s “ _If I Could Turn Back Time”_ by heart.

It’s somewhere between the second chorus and the bridge, walking down the poorly lit streets leading up to his house and bobbing his head quietly to the beat, that Craig stumbles across _him._

At first he looks like another good ol’ nondescript hobo, sitting on the damp cement, back pressed onto the Stoleys' Star Trek themed mailbox and knees pulled all the way up to his chest. Underneath the streetlamps that flicker on-and-off with yellow light bulbs that are just one step away from burning out and the pale moonlight, it’s almost impossible to make out who he is or what he is doing besides moping in the driveway while getting his ass soaked.

Craig bites his lip, risking a look over his shoulder to make sure another hobo hasn’t tried to sneak up on him. The deserted street stares back at him, cold and unforgiving, and while that means that at least he’s not in immediate danger it also means that, were this unidentified person to attack him out of the blue, Craig would be left all alone to fend for himself with no one coming to his rescue.

The noiret bites his lip, fingers curling around his phone inside the pocket of his hoodie. He could backtrack a little, ring one of his buddies up and try to make his way past the possible offender fully confident in the fact that backup is on their way would anything slightly shady happen on his end — but then again, that’d be attracting unnecessary attention to himself and his possessions, and wouldn’t _that_ blow up in his face were this man really going to try and loot him.

Craig takes a deep breath in, planting his feet on the ground and giving himself a quick mental pep-talk. He takes one look at the Stoleys' house and feels somewhat relieved when he realizes there’s a light turned on inside one of the top windows, which means that at least there will be someone awake to come to his aid if he screams loud enough.

Having made his mind, the noiret gulps and continues onward, eyes not leaving the figure on the floor for a second. The closer he gets, the less hobo-y the person looks and more just like a regular trashed young adult. It’s not until Craig is eight feet away from the guy that he notices just who is crazy enough to be soaking his ass outside at this hour instead of partying it up or whatever young adults like them are expected to do on their last summer before college, characteristic navy-blue beanie giving its owner away.

Stan Marsh hugs his knees to his chest with both eyes focused on the ground, breath coming out in white puffs of air as he sits on the wet concrete, a constellation of tears on his lashes that he appears unbothered by — either because he’s past the point of caring or has decided it’s just not worth it to try and fight them off, Craig’s not sure.

(He’s also not sure whether he wants to find out or not).

Craig takes one look at him and feels like running the other way, or just ignoring him completely and walking down the street as though nothing has happened. All of his plans get thrown out the window, however, when Stan turns to look at him square in the face; and it’s the lack of emotion there that makes him whistle against his own will, mouth curling around the words before he even knows what he’s doing.

“You look like shit.”

One corner of Stan’s mouth drops down. “Shut the fuck up, Craig.”

Craig knows he should take that as his cue to leave, to get the fuck away from this as fast as he can and pretend in never happened. He shouldn’t try to associate with Stan ever again if he doesn’t want to end caught up in some absolutely stupid gig that could have him deported or sat in front of the whole fucking UN Security Council.

He knows all of this, logically, which makes the fact that he decides to sit crossed legged with his back to the lamp post, directly in front of Stan, all the more unexpected. “Wanna talk about it?”

Maybe it’s the fact that not even an hour ago he was deep inside Tweek and Craig can’t find himself to not care about other’s well-being in this moment, maybe it’s _being_ with Tweek what has softened him out during the years — or maybe it’s something entirely different, the fact that deep down he is a decent person and really doesn’t understand why Stan is sat on the fucking wet concrete at twelve p.m. on a Sunday night looking like the emo protagonist of one cheesy as fuck movie for teenagers about coming of age and whatnot _. Either way, it’s not like the reason even_ matters _now,_ Craig realizes, grimacing when his butt starts getting wet but refusing to get up and walk away without finishing what he started.

The Tucker men are men of honour, goddamit, and if Craig has already dragged himself onto this mess then he sure as hell is clawing his way out, whether he likes it or not. _Tuckers do not ditch, even if shit stings like a bitch_ is what Grannie used to say, and Craig has always considered that to be the family’s motto.

Stan blinks at him, eyeing Craig up and down, and the taller male forces himself to bite back a snarky remark and instead sit still, trying his earnest to appear unbothered even if his jeans are getting soaked and the streetlight post on his back makes sitting comfortably a big challenge.

Marsh wipes one of his cheeks with his sleeve, still staring at his newfound companion with uncertainty, and it’s only then that Stan realizes that he’s never really paid much attention to Craig, not really. But seeing him now, under the dimly lit streetlight, it hits him how truly tall the other noiret is. While Stan himself is taller than average, he has nothing on Craig Tucker, who raises above everybody else what with his lanky arms and legs that seem to go on for days.

Despite that, Stan also notices that Craig is rather awkward on his own body. He is all skinny limbs and sharp angles, sun-kissed skin wrapped so delicately around his bones it almost looks like he’s a skeleton in of itself. That is not to say, however, that Craig isn’t painfully attractive — because _goddamn_ he is, short raven hair curling above his ears and matching nicely with his naturally tanned skin, the very few and scattered freckles that pepper his nose and cheeks hidden underneath alluring viridian eyes.

Stan is pretty sure Craig is exactly the type of guy cishet girls drool all over for, the one they dream about taking home to their mammas and going on fancy dates with. Too bad Craig is both taken and not interested in tight little skirts and prominent cleavages in the least.

The tension in the air is pretty thick, and since Craig isn’t planning nor willing to back down, he grasps around for a good enough distraction on his pocket and hums satisfied when he finds something that could lead towards being a good conversation starter.

“Want one?” Craig thrusts an open pack of cigarettes forward, his thumb holding an orange lighter over the Marlboro logo, head tilted slightly to the side. Stan blinks, staring at him and suppressing a smile when he realizes that underneath the yellow-orange flickering light Craig almost looks like the kind of guys parents tell their young children to be cautious around.

Pushing the mental image of Craig clad in a black trench coat, hiding cigarettes in the front pockets and waiting around the town’s Elementary School for unsuspecting, gullible fourth-graders to sell nicotine to, Stan tries to regain his focus. He doesn’t smoke, but he also doesn’t know how to reject Craig without seeming rude or ungrateful, so he settles onto the next good thing.

“Didn’t know you smoked,” the words come out slightly watery and most likely incomplete due to the fact that Stan’s throat pretty much feels like sandpaper after all the crying he’s been doing, but Craig either pretends not to notice or simply can't be bothered to care, merely humming in acknowledgement as he tries to better accommodate himself against the lamp post.

“I don’t,” Craig shrugs, as if that explains anything. Stan furrows his brow, then, and he must be looking at the box funny because the taller male sighs and rolls his eyes before eyeing the pack with a fond look. “Tweek does. Says it helps him de-stress, or whatever. I carry a pack with me at all times in case he’s forgotten his, or already gone through the whole box.”

“That’s…” a tiny part of him is tempted to say sweet, but Stan bites his tongue. There’s nothing remotely romantic about carrying nicotine around for your partner, even more so if said partner has an addictive personality and known as that one kid that had to skip a grade once because his parents got busted selling methamphetamine and he got sent away to a rehabilitation camp in Denver back in Middle School. He supposes it’s the thought that counts, anyway. “… Interesting.”

“Don’t start judging me already,” Craig rolls his eyes, pushing the smokes forward with a little bit more urgency. “Are you going to take one or what?”

Stan prefers alcohol to cigarettes, but since he’s not quite sure how to articulate that thought without seeming like a jerk or coming across as his dad, he instead says, “Do you think I worry too much?”

“Are you seriously asking me that?” The Peruvian male grimaces, pocketing the pack of cigs and lighter and leaving both his hands in the pouch of his hoodie. “Dude, I don’t give a fuck about anything at all. I think everyone worries too much.”

Despite himself, Stan finds that he’s amused by that notion. “That’s rich coming from someone whose boyfriend was convinced the whole Korean government was out to get him.”

“Don’t you dare drag Tweek into this,” there’s a warning in that tone, eyes the colour of jade shimmering with a rage that makes Stan’s throat go dry. It’s a look he hasn’t seen in a long, long time, and it reminds the shorter male that even if his companion could easily pass as a scarecrow, Craig is fully capable of standing his own in a fistfight and would undoubtedly take him down no sweat.

After all, this is the dude who would get into fights with his upperclassmen _“for the fun of it”_ all during the first few years of high school and who only stopped when his own boyfriend challenged him to a duel and beat the shit out of him in front of the whole school because he was too worried that street fighting would pass from being a fun hobby that riled people up to an actual lifestyle that’d make Craig drop out of school and waste his future and — shit, was Stan really paying attention when Tweek ranted about the whole issue at their cafeteria table?

“And, for the record, they actually were. Not that I owe you an explanation, anyway.” Craig is still staring at Stan as if daring him to object, but since the jock values his life more-or-less, he duly nods and brings one hand up to tug the damp beanie off his head.

“I suppose you don’t,” he clutches the navy-blue piece of fabric delicately in his fingers, squeezing some water out of it. The beanie had been one rare gift from Shelly a few years back, days after Randy had moved out and Sharon was still trying to sort out the divorce papers. His sister had never been one for affection, so of course it’d thrown him off when she’d walked up to him in the middle of the school’s parking lot and shoved the item into his hands before (rather aggressively) telling him to get in her car so they could go grab a bite.

It had been then that Stan had really started to see his sister as a girl with conflicting emotions and pent-up rage issues rather than a she-ogre that stole his shit when he wasn’t looking, getting to know small pieces and bits of normal Shelly in between bites of greasy food and sound slurps of cheap milkshakes, debating in hushed whispers all the thing that they’d shoved under the rug for the better part of their childhoods.

The sun had set by the time they’d both noticed they were still sat inside the uncomfortable diner’s booth, too caught up in their long overdue heart-to-heart to notice. Shelly had taken one look out to the darkened streets and regretfully admitted in a low voice that she’d rather have them both off the house while things calmed down, and since Stan didn’t want to upset their truce, he’d nodded and told her to drop him off at Kyle’s even though he’d much rather go back home and get drunk in his room with some of the leftover alcohol his dad didn’t pack, blasting Simple Plan at the top of his speakers and wondering where the fuck life had given up on him.

But being with Kyle always proved to be better, and by midnight Stan found himself with a full belly (courtesy of Shelia’s amazing stew and his inability to say no to that woman, even after three full plates of the damned thing), freshly out of the shower in the spare set of pyjamas he always kept at the Broflovski’s house and with a text of his sister telling him she’d be staying with a friend for a couple of days, blue beanie soft to the touch between his hands.

At first he’d been hesitant to try the thing on, still processing the events from that day. His usual, worn down red-puffball hat still on his head despite the late hour and change of attire. Even thought the beanie looked much better (and felt way nicer than his trustworthy old one) it also looked more mature, less childish and more sobered-up what without the accent red colour or dangling puffball.

(But then again, wasn’t he supposed to be sobering up as well? His dad was gone and his mother was filing for a divorce and his sister wasn’t half the monster he always made her out to be and his best friend was in the shower a few rooms away and — and besides, the change of headgear had been long overdue anyways).

So Stan had tried the darker beanie on and he’d loved it, and even Kyle had said it looked better than the old one, when he came out of the shower. And the next morning at school Wendy had actually texted him with a compliment, even if she was still mad from their breakup three days prior, and when Shelly dropped by out of the blue to pick him up after school for the second day in a row she’d half-smiled and her eyes had looked a little livelier, so Stan threw the old one in the trash along with his father’s belongings that Sharon had taken out in a cardboard box earlier and called it that.

The topic of reminiscing about life and hats makes him turn to look at his companion, who had apparently given up on expecting any sort of reply or topic of conversation further than what they had going and was now back to listening music with his headphones, feet tapping along to the beat against the pavement. There’s a yellow hoodie pulled over his head and Stan blinks, because he can’t remember the moment Craig ditched his hat and started wearing the hood of his clothes instead — or the moment he changed up the colour scheme of his wardrobe, either. As far as Stan can remember, all that Craig Tucker seemed to own where blue sweatshirts and black jeans. Yet here he is, unapologetic and dozing-off as he bobs his head along to whoever it is that’s singing inside his ears.

Stan blinks, gulping down the lump in his throat and sucking in a deep breath. He leans his head back against the mailbox, blue eyes widening when he catches a glimpse of Kevin Stoley’s bedroom window, illuminated from the inside — but that can’t possibly his bedroom, because where in hell are those Star Wars themed curtains that he boosted about of social media for days on end? When had his windows changed from being covered with spacecrafts and planets to plain old, boring sky-blue curtains? When had that happened? Did all of them grow up while Stan was looking the other way?

That makes Stan frown, mouth curving upside down as he tries to recall what else has changed that he hasn’t noticed. Hadn’t Bebe cut her hair short? What happened to it being long, blonde and curly? And what about Kenny, when was the last time Stan had heard of him? Was he still doing those part-time shifts at Whole Foods and working on his business on the side or was he doing either of those full time now? What the fuck had Wendy been up to before they broke up last Sunday?

Belatedly, Stan realizes that his inner wondering must’ve made him make a pretty sour face because when he snaps back into reality it’s to Craig’s soft voice reaching out to him, concerned green eyes staring pensively while one earphone dangles off the side of his hoodie, tanned hands crossed on top of a single bent knee.

“Why are you doing this?” Stan snaps, effectively cutting off whatever Craig was trying to tell him. The noiret makes a confused face, mouth snapping shot, and so Stan continues. “You have no reason to be doing this, man, we’re not even that close. What’s this about?”

Even Craig looks like he doesn’t quite know the answer to this, mouth opening and closing a few times like a gaping fish before he gives up on trying to form a coherent sentence altogether and looks to the side, viridian eyes focusing on a far-away point in the darkened horizon as brown lips curl downwards.

“You looked sad.”

That single sentence alone makes all the fight bleed out of Stan in one swift punch.

He blinks, “I did?”

“Yeah,” the space nerd shrugs, but the movement is stilled and very much awkward. “I-It seemed wrong, I think. That’s what made me want to help you feel better, or some shit. Seeing you was depressing, and I wanted to see if I could make it better somehow.”

And Stan really can’t help it — he snorts.

“What’s so funny?” Craig makes the face if someone who just swallowed a whole lemon or smelt a particularly nasty fart, and Stan can’t help that the expression alone makes him crack up even more.

“I mean, don’t take it the wrong way, but you literally have the emotional abilities of a rock, and it’s not even like you’re making an effort to cheer me up because we’re friends,” he lets out a dry giggle, squeezing more moisture out of his hat and watching as the crystallized teardrops fall to the ground with a pensive expression. “The last time we talked was on graduation night, and if I recall correctly our conversation was you telling me to get out of the fucking way since you wanted to get a refill and I was blocking the punch with my body.”

“Ugh, just thinking about it gives me a headache,” Craig groans, letting his head hit the lamp post behind it. He closes his eyes as to not stare directly into the yellow, flickering light bulb, and Stan idly wonders if his former classmate knows how good he looks directly under the spotlights. “Which one of you idiots spiked it, was it Cartman? I swear to God, that shit was so disgusting I actually ended up throwing up inside my dad’s car.”

Stan musters a sideways smile. “Actually, that would’ve been Butters.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Craig’s head snaps back to its rightful position, viridian eyes wide open. “Butters? The same Butters that arrived at prom with handmade _“Have luck in all your future endeavours!”_ cards and cried when giving his runner-up valedictorian speech? That Butters?”

“The one and only,” the smaller male shrugs, not quite meeting his companion’s eyes, trying too hard to focus on the memory of his blonde friend maniacally pouring an unidentified flask onto the crappy prom punch. “Guess even the good guys get tired of playing perfect every now and then.”

“All of the time,” Craig mutters, sounding like someone that knows a little bit more than he lets on.

It’s then that Stan has to remind himself that although Craig’s gang is all pretty chill and PC in of itself, that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re less of hormonal teenagers than the rest of the school. Wasn’t Stan shitting his pants less than ten minutes ago just ‘cause Craig had looked at him like he was ready to throw his corpse in a ditch and cover up his traces? So only God knows what those kids are up to in their free time.

Maybe Jimmy has some sort of handicapped-only escort service? Or is Token secretly controlling the life of every South Park citizen like a fucked-up game of Sims? Is Clyde actually hiding a dazzling eight-pack underneath that dad bod and wannabe jock attitude? Is Tweek’s twitchy nature nothing more than a really good mask of his suave, chill self that he keeps up all the time and only ever lets down at Theatre Club?

“So, now, mind telling me what’s it that has you having a metal breakdown in front of Star Trek’s number one fan house at midnight on a weekend?” Craig asks at last, resuming his lazy position against the lamp post and staring at Stan with sleepy, half-lidded eyes.

“He doesn’t like Star Trek anymore,” the noiret mutters before he can help himself, biting his bottom lip. “Or Star Wars, I think.”

Craig looks thrown back by the statement, a single perfectly trimmed brow raised and lips pulled into a tight line. “Why would you think that?”

“The curtains,” Stan feels pretty stupid explaining his reasoning, so he just vaguely points one arm backwards, in the general direction of the house, and hopes Craig is smart enough to fill in the rest. “They’re not the same ones he used to have; he’s got plain boring ones now.” He adds “Sky blue,” as an afterthought, just in case Craig can’t remember or be bothered to care about which room is Kevin’s.

“He does?” The taller noiret cranes his head, eyes the colour of wet grass zooming in the single illuminated window before falling back on Stan. “Hm, guess Red must’ve convinced him to. She was never a fan of the others, that much I know. Said they let enough moonlight in and that’s why she didn’t like staying over. The room felt too gloom.”

“You talk to Red?” Stan blinks, trying to process the newfound information that apathetic, aloof Craig Tucker not only owns ugly mustard yellow hoodies but that he also speaks to fire-starter extraordinaire Red Skeeter. And _then_ an even bigger piece of information registers. “Wait, Kevin and Red are dating?”

“Dude, she’s my cousin, I’m like—legally obligated to, I think,” Craig says that as if it’s not a big thing, unaware to the fact that knowing that Craig and Red are related has Stan’s head reeling a mind a minute, overloaded with the three new bullet points he’s added to the mental list he has of Things to Know About Craig Tucker in the last five minutes. “And yes? They’ve been at it for longer than Tweek and I have, how come you didn’t know?”

“I… I never noticed,” Marsh gulps, hiding his face between his hands and finding some solace in the wet beanie, damp and cold from where it’s pressing awkwardly against his cheek. “God, that’s insane. I must be, I think.”

“What are you… talking about?” Even if Stan isn’t looking at Craig right now, he can imagine the sort of lost expression his counterpart must be wearing, eyebrows knit together and mouth pressed into a line as he leans slightly forward and tilts his head like a confused puppy.

God, Stan hasn’t had a proper chat with Craig in over a decade but he can recall exactly the kind of expression the other makes when he’s trying hard to understand something and _how can he notice that but not notice that his parents marriage was falling apart and that his sister loves him deeply, even under all those threats and insults?_

“Nothing, it’s just like,” Stan takes in a deep breath, hiding his face between his knees and bringing both arms around his legs. “You could kill me if you wanted to without breaking a sweat despite how scrawny you look, and Red has apparently been banging Kevin all this time — which is also the reason he changed those geeky curtains of his and grew a little out of his Star Wars slash Trek fan phase. And, and, and my sister is not half bad as I always made her out to be, and I haven’t heard a word from Kenny in _literal years_ , man. And Butters is apparently the kind of guy that has a 4.0 GPA but also carries flasks of literal alcohol everywhere he goes and hand makes farewell cards and— _SHIT!_ Do you think I’m going insane? Do you think I’ve already used up all my common sense and completely given in to the madness? Do you feel it, too? Has South Park done this to us, or have we done it ourselves?”

Tucker snorts.

“Man, I’m sat here talking to you against all better judgement, getting my butt completely soaked while trying to help you figure out the mess of thoughts in your head, even though years ago I promised to myself I’d never associate with you ever again,” Craig makes a pause for dramatic effect, curling a single eyebrow up in the way Clyde spent an entire afternoon teaching him to do. “And yet you’re asking me if I think there’s any semblance of sanity left in this God forsaken town?”

That’s when the whole reality of the situation dawns on Stan, the fact that they’re sat underneath a flickering lamp post, simultaneously freezing and soaking their butts off while talking in circles and not really doing anything besides pointing out the obvious and then contradicting themselves.

They’re two kids barely out of high school with too much spare time on their hands, sat in the driveway of a house that belongs to neither of them at midnight reminiscing about the past when they could very well be venturing out into their future. Stan is thinking about locked doors and missed chances when he could be out there, kicking walls down and trying to work out solutions for his problems instead of having a mental breakdown outside the house of a kid he hasn’t talked to in years because his best friend is way too caring and his girlfriend is way too demanding and he feels too much like shit to care about one or the other.

(He could go to Wendy’s house and ask for her forgiveness or he could go back to Kyle’s house and apologize for being late when he said he’d be there for dinner but didn’t show up until well past midnight or he could go back home to mum crying in the kitchen or he could stay here and pray Craig doesn’t have anywhere to go and is fine with keeping him company a little longer).

“Yeah,” he sniffs, bringing one arm to wipe out the traces of tears on his cheeks. “Yeah, you’re right, it’s stupid.”

“Never said it was,” Craig rolls his shoulders against the lamp post, tugging the hood of his clothes a little more over his eyes, short strands of sleek black fringe poking out from underneath the yellow hem. “Feelings aren’t stupid, Stan. They’re natural, we’re only humans, after all. Sometimes you just need to say shit out loud for it to stop being so troubling.”

“That was…” the jock blinks, running a hand through his hair and cocking his head to the side, drowsy and sleepy and downright _exhausted._ “Actually pretty solid, man. Where did you pick up all this wisdom from? Because it sure as hell wasn’t there eight years ago, or everyone would’ve noticed.”

Or at least Stan thinks so, considering he spent all his childhood talking shit about the stupidity of his elders and constantly looking sideways in search of someone that at least knew the basic functions of their own brain. He’d like to imagine that he could have picked Craig’s matureness out, sticking up like a sore spot amidst the chaotic and often senseless town of South Park.

(But who knows, maybe he missed that part too).

“A lot of anxiety crash courses but mostly trial and error,” Craig grins like he’s particularly proud of himself at that, managing to look both sheepish and undeniably unapologetic at the same time. “My boyfriend is a neurotic fuck and my best friend a goddamn crybaby,” the grin finds its way into a gentler smile. “I would’ve been an idiot not to pick some things up along the way.”

Stan blinks, looking at Tucker like he’s finally seeing him for the first time, underneath the shitty light that comes and goes, clad in a horrendous coloured with one earphone on and the other dangling precariously from the side of his neck.

This kid right here, the one that knows about anxiety and feelings and encourages venting as a way to relieve emtions is also the same one that broke up with his boyfriend over a stupid superhero game once and an alleged unfaithfulness one other time. He’s exactly the same douche that hot wired Stan's car after football practice and drove it all the way to North Park and once bought all the chocolate they had on display at Whole Foods because it was Valentine’s Day and he couldn’t decide which brand Tweek would’ve liked better, not caring that he screwed over anyone that also had plans on getting their hands on even a single chocolate bar because all he could think about was his boyfriend.

(This is the kid that once punched a senior so hard his ribs cracked and the same one that completely overshadowed every other Homecoming proposal by staging a whole ass play with help from the Theatre Club in freshman year, complete with musical numbers and its own goddamn soundtrack available for download on Spotify).

“You’re godsend, that’s what you are,” Stan feels the tears clogging up his vision but refuses to let them spill out again, blinking rapidly in a futile attempt to make them disappear. It works even less than expected. “I’m an emotional mess and my best friend has never tried to see me through any of it. I can’t imagine how grateful Clyde and Tweek must feel to have you at their side.”

Craig hums at that, shrugging in a way that must’ve been awkward what with his lanky arms and shitty posture, but somehow manages to look disinterested even if the noiret is anything but.

“I mean, don’t take it the wrong way, but Kyle is pretty shit at feelings,” one freckled hand comes to toy with the cord of the earphone that’s dangling from his neck, fingers the colour of brown sugar twisting the red cable around absentmindedly. “He’s been shit at it ever since we were children, it’s not like anybody hasn’t noticed. I’m pretty sure he knows it, too.”

“So were you,” Stan sniffs, not caring how rude his last statement just sounded. “And look how that turned out.”

And somehow Craig softens at that, sleepy eyes rounding up with some sort of misplaced appreciation. The look on his face is exactly the same one Kyle would get whenever he had to explain something to Ike that the Canadian boy didn’t know or didn’t understand (in the very few rare and in between occasions those were), and Stan wants to hate him for looking at him like that but he can’t quite bring himself to muster up the will to actually commit to the idea.

“Well, yeah, but I had to put the work in to get to where I’m now. And even then it’s not all hunky-dory.” More of that patient, gentle look. A mother teaching her son how to properly chop vegetables, a sixteen-year-old older sister talking to her toddler younger brother about the (watered down) horrors of high school, Kyle teaching Ike about the Fourth of July. _Kyle, Kyle, Kyle—_ “Hit or miss, dude, I told you. Not everyone has to learn how to deal with someone else’s panic attacks, or defuse them from an early age. It isn’t something we were ever taught at school — or by anybody else, really. Mental illnesses aren’t shed enough spotlight on, I reckon.”

Craig makes a sour face, eyebrows pinching together with barely-concealed anger and that’s when Stan realizes that Craig is way more passionate than he’d originally given him credit for, way more dimensional than he seems at first glance. He’s light years apart from the kid Stan once knew, the one that loved Red Racer and guinea pigs and nothing else.

This boy right here —this _man_ — has no problem sitting underneath flickering streetlights and talking his self-proclaimed rival through a bad time just because he _looked_ sad, has no problem admitting who the people he keeps close are and from the looks of it is passionate about being open about mental health and, and—

And he’s fucking _trying._

That’s what hits Stan the most.

“But you made an effort!” the jock cries, throwing all previous caution (not that there was much left to begin with, but _still_ ) to the wind and letting the tears he tried to conceal moments ago spring free. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t be caught dead showing any sort of human emotion other than smugness near Craig Tucker, but Stan is way past the point of caring — even if he wasn’t, there’s not a lot one can do when the ache in your chest feels like it’s going to rip you open if you don’t let it out soon. “You cared about Tweek and Clyde so you took crash courses and learnt their triggers and—and you’re a support system to them, from what I gather. But Kyle simply doesn’t care, and he doesn’t even try to pretend he cares!”

Craig doesn’t say anything then, doesn’t even make a sound. He continues staring at Stan, twisting the cord of his Red Racer themed earphones in one hand and tracing circles on top of the wet concrete with the other.

“And then there’s me, who cares too much about everything yet still can’t get anything right,” Stan uses the silence to empty out all his feelings, the things that have been weighing heavy on him for years on end now and don’t seem all that relevant when said apart but altogether just make for a clusterfuck of things to worry about all night and day long. “My parents are divorced and my mother cries herself to sleep every night and my sister is all the way in Ohio and my girlfriend was cheating on me with fucking Cartman of all people and I just stood up my best friend’s mum and her goddamn awesome stew and I’m sat against fucking Kevin Stoley’s mailbox talking to the most apathetic kid in town that is actually really well-versed in all this _feelings_ stuff and _life doesn’t make sense, man_.”

The tears have traced paths across his cheeks now, and by the time Stan finishes he’s heaving so hard he can’t even hear the words himself, but he hopes Craig at least is smart enough to have caught the general idea, because he sure as hell isn’t going to repeat all that emotional dump without a beer at his side, or something of the like.

“It sucks,” Stan emphasises, just to make sure Craig gets that part at least, and his companion hums.

“Life sucks sometimes, but it’ll pass,” he tugs the hood down, and Stan is left staring at a mess of short raven hair sticking up in at least fifty different directions. “All things do, good and bad. They come, they rock our worlds, leave a couple things in their wake and then disappear.”

Craig shrugs lazily, pulling the other earphone out of his ear and closing his eyes briefly before opening them again, eyes the colour of leaves looking almost black underneath the combination of moonlight and artificial light.

“That’s why it isn’t worth to worry about something for too long,” he tilts his neck to one side, slowly, then to the other, staring at Stan with the tired expression of an old wise man that knows more than his fair share of the universe’s secrets. “Too much wasted time, too little things to be gained. It’s better to just let shit follow its natural course and roll along with it.”

For a while, no one says anything. Stan bites his lip and clutches his beanie tighter in his hands, mulling over Craig’s words, twisting and turning and picking at them, dissecting them and tearing them apart and putting them back together and then repeating all the process while Craig idly watches in silence, red earphone cord curling around his fingers as the clock continues ticking by.

“Maybe you’re right,” Stan says at last, gulping down whatever was left of his pride.

“Well yeah, don’t look so surprised,” the space nerd grins, smug, and his eyes look so dark it’s almost surreal. “I’ve always been right about a lot of things.”

Stan thinks back to Peru, Craig’s eyes boiling in anger. _No one likes hanging out with you, no one likes hanging out with you, you are a jerk and never learn from your mistakes, a jerk that never learns from—_

He shuts that voice out like someone placing a cup over a candle, flame extinguished in the snap of a finger.

“I know, just never noticed until now,” Stan takes a deep sigh, keeps it in and counts to three before letting it go, taking the chance to stand up in a single motion so that his ass is no longer placed against the flat, uncomfortable sidewalk and looking down to Craig, who is still very much sat in the damp cement, back pressed against the lamp post. “Thanks, Craig. Talking to you has been...” Soothing? Helpful? Better than talking to my best friend and/or girlfriend ever was? “Nice.”

“That’s probably the only good thing you’ve ever said to me,” he grins sideways, so Stan knows Craig isn’t really offended — and since _when_ did Stan start caring about Craig’s feelings? (Maybe sometime in between the heart-to-heart. [Hard to pinpoint exactly when, though]). “Shall I walk you home?”

Stan is mildly tempted to say no and send him off with a very awkward hug and a promise to talk again soon, but he doesn’t. Although hard to admit, he actually enjoys Craig’s company, and the guy seems much more likeable than he used to be all those years back then, not to mention the fact that he’s been more helpful than anyone that has ever tried to console Stan before, so what’s the harm in indulging in this safe space they’ve created for a little longer?

 _Weird,_ Stan thinks, staring at Craig. If someone had come up to him that morning and told him he’d be spending the early hours of the morning chit-chatting the night (day?) (early hours of the morning?) away with his sworn rival Craig Tucker, he’d probably would’ve laughed in their face and driven over to Craig’s house just to flip him the bird or throw eggs at his window or some equally stupid six-grader prank that should’ve died years ago.

Yet it turns out that here he is, stood in front of a guy that shared an uncanny resemblance to him way back in Elementary School but now couldn’t be any more different — Craig is tall, tan and lanky as opposed to Stan’s average height, creamy skin and toned body (but that’s okay, looking alike was never a good look on either of them) — talking shit about their hometown and the meaning of life itself, soaked and frozen to the bone, underneath a flickering light that _should really be replaced, honestly_ at ungodly hours in the morning, sharing bits and pieces of their lives while the rest of the world sleeps.

That’s more than enough for Stan to make his mind.

He says, “Okay,” and starts walking in the direction of his house, not looking over his shoulder or waiting for Craig to catch up but knowing the other noiret isn’t that far behind from the hurried noises he hears. A rustling sound, a cursed-filled exclamation and finally the squeaky sound of damp sneakers hitting the pavement.

Weirdly enough, Craig falls into step easily beside him, not a word slipping past his tight-sealed lips.

The silence is somehow even better than their previous conversation. Craig doesn’t say anything as he just walks alongside Stan, head tipped back towards the night sky, viridian eyes staring intently at the stars like there's some sort of secret to be shared that only he has been let in.

Stan rips his gaze away from Craig, deciding to leave the other boy to his stargazing and just focusing on the road, sore feet walking down paths he’s walked countless of times before. Even though the Stoley don’t really live anywhere near the Marsh, never has the trek back home ever felt this short. By the time Stan comes back to his senses they’ve already passed the bus stop and are walking past Kyle’s house, the lit windows making Stan cringe and curl onto himself without realizing it.

Then finally, finally they come to a stop before the dark green two-story house Stan has come to call a home. It looks black in the moonlight, and the worn-down exterior greets his inhabitant like an old friend.

“Try to get some shuteye tonight,” Craig advises, already turning on his heels and looking disinterestedly over his shoulder as he talks to Stan. “No matter how hard it is. And do drop by Tweek Bros. Coffee in the morning for a free cup of whatever blend catches your eye — just tell whoever is working at the front desk to add it to my tab, they’re bound to get you the best shit ‘round no questions asked.”

Stan quirks a brow. “Well, that certainly is the most ominous coffee I’ve ever been treated to.”

“What can I say? My boyfriend is the owner which makes the employees terrified of getting on my bad side,” Craig shrugs, pulling back up his yellow hood. “Anyways, that’s that on that. Tweek Bros. doesn’t sell meth anymore but if you get any kind of dark roast that shit will kick in faster and harder than any drug could. Considering how you look and the fact that you’ll probably have a rough night, you are going to need the extra boost.”

“I’ll try not to take that as an insult,” Stan tries to laugh the thing off as a joke but it probably comes out pained. It still amazes him how well-versed Craig appears to be in this kind of things, and a small part of him wishes that Kyle knew even half of the things Tucker does.

“Whatever, Marsh,” another shrug, slower than the last. Craig stifles a yawn against the crook of his elbow, gives Stan one final look over and blinks. “Have a good one.”

“You, too.”

Instead of entering his house, Stan walks up the steps leading to the main door and leans against the bruised and battered wood, idly watching as Craig crosses the street without even bothering to look sideways (not that there are any passing cars at this hour, however, but _still_ ) and walking up to the blue residence right in front of Stan’s house like he owns the place, briefly pausing in the driveway to rummage through his pockets before nodding quite enthusiastically and lifting the garage door, slipping inside like a ninja and closing the door back down as though it hadn’t been moved in the first place.

It’s in that exact same moment that Stan belatedly realizes Craig _does_ own the place — or his parents do, at least. And h _oly shit how long has been Craig living across from his own house? Has he been there all this time?_ How come it took Stan this long to realize, was he really that deep into himself?

Stan realizes Craig’s offer to walk him home was more of a formality than a genuine question, and he’s both glad he didn’t turn the other male down and make the trek back awkward but also upset at himself that he didn’t realize sooner the Tuckers have been just across the street all this time.

Adding a fourth bullet point to his ever-growing mental List of Things to Know About Craig Tucker, he hums and palms around the pockets of his jeans for his own key, being extra careful to make sure the wooden door or floor don’t creak as he slides into the house and tiptoes over the carpeted stairs all the way to his room —better not announce his presence unless strictly necessary, is all— before flopping down on his mattress and heaving a deep sigh that feels as though it contains the last eighteen years of his life and then some in one single breath.

In the morning, Stan borrows his mother’s car and drives all the way up to Tweek Bros. Coffee, and he’s barely even finished saying Craig’s name before the vamp kid behind the counter hurriedly reaches for the largest cup and smiles like her life depends on it, silver eyes panicked as she tries her best to seem friendly and approachable despite the pin in her shirt reading in pretty calligraphy “ **[DON’T] _talk to me_** ”. Stan makes good use of previous advice and asks for the first thing he sees scribbled underneath ‘dark roasts’ on the chalkboard menu that hangs over the counter.

And Craig _is_ right, the fucker kicks in like a bitch.

For some reason, that makes a smile stretch across his lips. Stan blinks at his reflection on the screen of his phone, gulps, and takes another sip.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! If you did then please consider leaving kudos/commenting because it makes me really happy to see that people like what I write!!
> 
> If you'd like to follow me and see what I'm up to, you can go check out my [Tumblr](https://valery-snowflakes.tumblr.com/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ValeryHowlter) and [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.me/ValerySnowflakes) accounts! I also have a [Ko-Fi](https://ko-fi.com/A0A3RWNL) that you can donate to if you're feeling particularly generous! I write drabbles for any ship and/or fandom for whoever donates!
> 
> And that's it for now! I have a lot more ideas for this series, including one multi-chaptered Tricia/Karen story, one Kyle/Jimmy longshot and two Craig/Tweek side-stories, so make sure to subscribe so you don't miss any of them! See you soon!


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